


Be Still

by allisondraste



Series: Faded Moments [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Lavellan, Angst, Bickering, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Smut, Racism, Rewrite, Solas Smut, badass lavellan, tipsy solas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 21:06:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16395098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allisondraste/pseuds/allisondraste
Summary: Niamh Lavellan has as horrible of a time at the grand ball at the Winter Palace as she expects, but her relationship with Solas takes a dramatic turn away from uncertainty.  This is a rewrite of one of my very first Solavellan creations!





	Be Still

**Author's Note:**

> This is a rewrite of a fic that I wrote when I first played Solavellan. My style has grown, as well as my interpretation of Solas and of my own Lavellan, so I wanted to give it another shot. I hope you all enjoy!

“Can we not just send troops to protect the Empress,” Niamh Lavellan pleaded her advisors, warranting a nod of approval from the commander, as Leliana and Josephine shook their heads simultaneously. “Why do they want me to be there anyway? So they can stare at the unfortunate elf who would have rather died than be the Herald if a god who is not hers? The Chantry’s token elf come to frolic about a palace, all confused and out of place. This is ridiculous!”

Needless to say, she was not pleased when the trio of towering humans decided for her that she must attend the ball despite her protest. Cullen had supported her arguments, with concerns about her safety at the event. However, it was the consensus that Niamh must risk life and limb to entertain a group of inbred assholes whose only relevance was their wealth. Though they knew the Orlesian prejudice against the elves, it seems that not a single one of her advisors understood the horrible treatment Niamh stood to face attending this affair as anything other than a servant.

They could not imagine the gasps of horror that would echo the halls when she passed by as the nobles saw the green filigree of vallaslin adorning her face and the pointed tips of her ears. How many times would she be asked to refill a drink, she wondered. How many times would they call her a “filthy knife ear”? She was angry already. The regal uniforms would do little to earn her prestige, but no, the Inquisitor must be present for the peace talks at the “Winter Palace.”

Halamshiral was its real name. Niamh cringed every time she heard the old Dalish capital reduced to some frilly shemlen name, spoken in pompous voices who did not understand the history of the ground upon which they danced.  She stood by the outer gates, the imposing palace extending far above her. A shaky breath left her chest, startling her. She had not realized her own anxiety in all of the chaos. The palace, once a symbol of her people’s power, now represented everything she detested about humanity. Impressive that they managed to fit it all under one roof. Sweat droplets formed on her forehead and it became ever more difficult to breathe. Suddenly, her uniform felt like prison. She sighed as she tugged at the collar in a desperate attempt to loosen it up.

Niamh jumped slightly, shaken from her thoughts, as a delicate hand, warm to the touch even through a glove, brushed her own out of the way. She focused her attention to the figure in front of her, the pointed ears slightly larger than her own, the frustratingly well-defined jawline that drove her mad. His brows were furrowed in concentration and he bit his lower lip as he fiddled with the buttons of her collar. A gaudy, pointed hat covered his usually bald head.

“Solas,” she said, partially to acknowledge his presence, partially to ask him what the hell he was doing. He did not look up at her, still focusing upon the buttons. Niamh shifted her weight uncomfortably and attempted to take hold of her collar again.

“Be still, vhenan,” Solas insisted, continuing to pull at the stubborn button until it came loose. His smokey blue eyes flashed upward to meet hers and she became aware that he was standing close enough that she could feel his breath against her skin. Infuriating desire bubbled low in her chest. She hated that he had that effect on her.

“You know I don’t mind you undressing me, but this is hardly the appropriate place,” Niamh teased, “I didn’t know you were into that kind of thing.” She grinned at the tinge of pink that crawled across his cheeks.

“I believe the buttons on the collar are decorative,” he explained, seeming to ignore her suggestive prod, “There is no need to choke, unless that is something you desire.”

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath. He called her bluff, and earned his turn to laugh as the heat rushed to her face. Still, Niamh much preferred these playful vies for dominance to the tenderness he had shown her moments earlier. She was not accustomed to the subtle ways Solas expressed his affection. She could weather the roughest of arguments and the coldest if shoulders, but his gentle touch and sincere concern might break her.

“Come,” Solas said as he continued to chuckle, “Let us get inside. We should not keep our hosts waiting.”

“I disagree,” she grumbled, but proceeded to enter the gates anyway. He walked beside her, hand resting lightly on her lower back.

The dreaded abuse that Niamh anticipated began as soon as they reached the glistening spout of water at the top of the staircase that led to the doors to the palace.  A slender woman in an exorbitant gown that was corseted at the waist, but billowed out around her with decorative lace, ruffles, and shimmering embroidery approached her.  Her face was obscured by a golden mask adorned with feathers that coordinated with her dress. She wore a gaudy ring on every single finger. It was impossible to comprehend how these people found such attire fashionable, let along practical for moving, or seeing.

“You there, rabbit,” the woman commanded as if Niamh was wearing rags and carrying a broom.  Rage bubbled beneath the surface, and Solas’s jaw clenched in the corner of her eye. She remembered Josephine’s damnable lecture about the Game and her instruction for Niamh to “behave.”  This was a euphemism for tolerating the many offenses that she was sure to face. Manners were not her strong suit.

“Oh, are we using pet names,” Niamh asked, ignoring every word Josephine had said to her, “How can I help you, bogfisher, dear?”

“Vhenan,” Solas cautioned in a low voice, stepping closer to her as if he expected to have to restrain her, as if he would be able to.  

“Why, I have never,” the woman shrieked as she grabbed Niamh's arm abruptly and squeezed tightly, her voice more horrified and histrionic than Niamh could have ever dreamed it would be, y “You need to learn your place, you filthy little knife-ear.”

“Careful, Lady Bogfisher,” Niamh spat, pulling her arm free, “ I wouldn’t want you to get cut by my pointy, pointy ears.”  She stared at the woman, refusing to tear her eyes away, to relent. The woman finally twirled around with a huff, and stormed away.  She had probably damaged any hope she had of earning court favor easily with that interaction, and Josie was sure to stare daggers into her soul, but bending to appease a self-important _bitch_ was not something she could do, not even for a day.

“That was foolish,” Solas scolded quietly, as he inspected the arm that the woman had grabbed, tenderly removing the glove and loosening the cuff, “Are you alright?”

There he was again with that gentle, compassionate bullshit.  He should have told her she was an idiot and that she was exactly like the Dalish, _her_ people.  He should have yelled at her for worsening the name of the Elven people and for making a mess of the Inquisition’s efforts. Instead, he seemed to be more concerned with her potential injury.  

“Undressing me twice in one night?  How risque,” she teased again, deflecting from the sincerity of the moment. He smiled, but not react to her remark.

“There is some mild bruising here.” Solas traced a round patch of red at the bend of her elbow. “Does it hurt?”

“I’m fine,” she snapped, recoiling from his touch, “Let’s just get inside and get this over with.”  She snatched the glove from him and pulled it over her hand and forearm. Her arm hurt - a lot, actually - but he did not need to know that. Solas sighed and shook his head, following her into the palace.

The beautiful interior of Halamshiral enveloped Niamh, and entranced her so that she nearly forgot the events of moments prior. Gold and marble surrounder her, as far as she could see, illuminated and glittering from the lights of intricate chandeliers.  Gorgeous people in extravagant clothing stood about chattering in the corners of the rooms. She could even see her own people, Inquisition advisors and companions, milling about, complaining about the uncomfortable impractical uniforms and drinking more that was wise.

The allure of the moment was shattered abruptly as the slurs only increased in rate and severity.  One woman squealed as Niamh passed by, commenting on her “ugly tattoos,” declaring what a blasphemy it was to have an Elven heathen as the leader of a powerful Andrastinian organization.  Others marveled at her “exotic” nature and were shocked when she spoke “their” language perfectly.

Her fist was stopped in its clenching as Solas laced his fingers through hers, squeezing slightly, a comforting gesture. She wanted to pull away from him, because she did not need to be soothed. She wanted to be angry. She had every right to be. Still, in spite of herself, she allowed him to hold her hand as they walked further into the building past gawking nobles. As much as she hated it, she felt slightly safer with her hand intertwined with his. When they reached the ballroom, they parted ways, as Niamh was needed to attend to her inquisitorial duties.

Once she was formally announced, the nobles’ remarks subsided, or at least were spoken in hushed whispers rather than shouted from balconies in one of the side courtyards. Miraculously, she was able to earn significant favor through blackmail and favors for some of the kinder attendees. Her work to uncover those who wished to harm the empress distracted her from the leering eyes and upturned noses.

She succeeded in discovering he assassination plot, and effectively saved the day.  Despite almost being murdered, Celene insisted that the party continue to celebrate Niamh and her companions, none of whom seemed to be too entirely thrilled to be there. Cassandra was suffocating in her uniform, Cullen was suffocating in a crowd of romantically interested parties, and the others were some varying degree of drunk, out of place, and trying their damndest to be on their best behavior, which Niamh understood was hard for them. It was hard for her as well.

From the ballroom, she could see Solas standing in one of the wings, leaning casually against a marble pillar. It was strange, seeing him so relaxed and informal, as if he had attended thousand court events in his lifetime. The glass of wine he held by the bowl, the stem in between two of his fingers, could not have been his first, as he smiled and carried on conversation freely. There was a looseness about him that she had only seen in the brief moments after they kissed. She hated herself for the longing that clawed at her chest.

Before she had the chance to leave the ballroom, she was approached by a man in an intricate gold and ebony mask . He was short and round, very obviously wealthy and well-fed. He sauntered over to her in a way that induced an eye roll and an immediate, internal dismissal of whatever it was he had to say.

“What an enticing creature you are,” he slurred, the only thing thicker than his Orlesian accent was the smell of alcohol on his breath. “Inquisitor, eh? Pfft. You’re still a little knife-ear whore. I know just how to treat women like you.”

“I’m so sorry! You must have the wrong whore,” Niamh spat, “I’m the one who sets men on fire if they so much as lay a fat, grimy finger on her.”

“Looks like you need to be reminded of your place, elf.” He held her by the chin, and she could not see his face, but she expected he would be scowling.

Just as Niamh was preparing to spit in his face and tell him to “piss off,” Solas appeared beside them, his posture pristine as ever, hands behind his back. His intoxication was betrayed by a light flush that colored his cheeks and the tips of his ears. He seemed to have discarded his wine glass.

“Do tell me how you intend on showing the Inquisitor her place,” he said sharply, placing an arm protectively between Niamh and the drunken man, forcing him to release his grip on her chin, “If you have the vocabulary.”

“You dare insult my intelligence,” the man shouted as he recoiled from Solas, drawing the eyes a a few bystanders, “You have no idea who you are dealing with!”

“Clearly, I am dealing with someone foolish enough to assault  someone with powerful ties to the Chantry and more than a few powerful people in Orlais and Ferelden,” Solas replied “I am not insulting your intelligence; I am simply _describing_ it.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Niamh’s mouth as the man stumbled over his words, and Solas ushered her away from him. She was ever aware of the soft pressure of his hand on her lower back. Her typical response to his intervention on her behalf would have been fury. She could take care of herself, damn it… and yet, he was absolutely ruthless.  It was impressive, alluring even, to see him direct his sharp wit at someone that was not her for once.

His hand fell from her back to his side, fingertips dancing with hers as they approached the spot Solas had seemed to claim as his. In an impulsive moment she took his hand in hers and laced her fingers through his softly, reveling in his surprise. He smiled and shook his head, pulling her close to him in the shadow of his pillar.

“You have had an eventful evening.” He brushed a loose strand of coppery hair out of her face and allowing his fingertips to linger on her cheek. He moved to trace the edge of her ear, seeming to become distracted by the golden cuff and piercings that adorned the lobe. For a moment Niamh allowed herself to revel in the warm, tingling sensation the caress sent through her body. She loved it, but she hated it. At least, she tried to tell herself she hated it.

“And you have had lot of wine.” Her playful answer hid her apprehension as she stepped away from him again,“A serving man, fraternizing with holy whore of Andraste. What shall the court think?”

The words burned in her throat as the feelings seeped out of the cracks in her bravado that Solas’s tenderness only deepened. Her joke fell flat from the weight of the reality behind the words. Hot tears welled in her eyes. Creators, she was a complete mess. Halamshiral had not been kind to her, and Solas’s helping was not helping.  

“Vhenan,” Solas attempted to comfort her, his voice a near whisper. She did not allow him to close the distance, though he tried.

“Don’t,” she said tersely, loud enough that her voice echoed from the corner of the room, “I appreciate that you put that creep in his place, but don’t.”

The hurt and confusion on his face stung, but her defenses were dangerously close to shattering, and that could not happen. Not at Halamshiral, and not in front of Solas. She was so uncertain of her feelings that the thought of him seeing her vulnerability terrified her more than Corypheus and his demon army, more than anything. She tore away from him, seeking the solitude of one of the balconies at the edges of the room.

She did not know why she expected Solas to follow her, nor why she wished for him to do so. Yet, there she was, alone with her thoughts, thoughts that drifted back to Solas and his stupid hands that she could still feel against her skin and his words that still resonated in her ears, making her heart pound.  She didn’t love him, she was just infatuated. That was it. That was completely the reason why she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Even a brief conversation with a curious and cryptic woman named Morrigan did little to distract her. As soon as the woman left, she was left to her internal chafing once again.

“I apologize for not coming to you sooner,” Solas’s voice rang out from behind her as he stood in the doorway, “I should have known you would seek refuge once your obligations were fulfilled.” He moved closer to stand by her side, resting his elbows on the balustrade.

“You don’t have to apologize,” she said, hanging her head and laughing bitterly, “I didn’t exactly ask for your company.”

“I can leave you alone if you wish.” His voice was sincere and sad at the same time.

“I have no idea what I want” Niamh confessed, avoiding meeting his eyes with her own, though they bore into her, dull daggers against her skin.

“What is on your mind, Vhenan,” he asked sincerely, placing a hand on her back.

Her eyes snapped toward him as she answered, “You."

“Oh.”

Solas recoiled from her slightly with his utterance and tension saturated the air, their eyes still locked intently on one another’s.  Niamh threw her arms up in exasperation and she said more than a couple curse words, her face was contorted and confused by a complicated mixture of anger and affection.

“What? Are you surprised,” she ranted, pacing about the space in front of him, “This entire night took a page out of my nightmares and threw it in my face.  And there you were, the epitome of comfort, at my side and ready to swoop to my defense.”

“Would you have preferred otherwise?” His terse intonation betrayed his own emotion. “Would it have made you happier for me to have watched you be brutalized? Is that what you wanted?”

“No, Solas, no it wouldn’t have, but it would sure as hell make me happier if this wasn’t the only time I’d ever seen this side of you,” her voice began to crack behind her words, “I actually feel like you care about me, for once.”

“I do,” he assured, moving closer and placing his hand on her cheek. She could feel the warmth of his skin even through his glove.

“You can’t _do that,”_ she swatted his hand away as she spoke. Dread Wolf take her if he kept touching her. “You can’t hate everything I stand for and say you love me. You can’t just touch me, and make it all go away.”

“You should have told me you felt this way.” His tone softened and he closed the distance between them.

“You’re smart. You should have figured it out.” She tilted her chin upward to meet his gaze.

“Perhaps I should go,” he said, his voice heavy and breathless.

“Maybe you should.” Her eyes locked intently with his. Her heart beat throbbed in her ears as she attempted to swallow down the desire that was building in her belly.

Her threadbare restraint snapped free as she leaned forward and placed a tentative kiss against his lips, biting the bottom one as she pulled away, eyes returning to his. She smirked at the sound of his breath hitching in his throat. His shaky exhale brushed past her ear, causing her to shudder.

In the headiness of the moment, they tore away from the balcony, hand in hand. They rushed through small crowds of people scattered about the ballroom and ignored those wishing to dance with one or both of them . It was a ball, they should be dancing, but for some reason that notion was not as appealing as it typically would be.

They pushed past large marble-framed door with intricate gold filigree that marked the entrance to her guest room. Niamh slammed and locked the door behind her, leaning against it as she examined the room.  It was as elaborate as she could have imagined, the theme of marble and gold continued in the floors and walls of the sizable space. A large and ornate bed with detailed lion carvings on the post sat in the center of the room. Torches burned in holsters on the posts near at the head of the head, and a canopy of thick, burgundy fabric hung from above. It seemed like a fire hazard.

An eternity passed in the brief moment that she and Solas stood feet apart, staring at one another. A mix of overwhelming desire and palpable uncertainty confused the situation, and Niamh knew she would change her mind if she did not act soon.

“So, just how drunk are you, anyway.” She stepped closer, voice resonating with concern.  Her fingers traced the buttons and buckles of his uniform, as she fought the unexplainable urge to rip them open.

“You need not concern yourself with that, vhenan,” he hummed into her ear, words vibrating across her skin, “I took care of it already.”

“Took care of it?” She struggled to not moan or gasp a she spoke. It was impossible to ignore Solas as he trailed warm, wet kisses from her earlobe to her neck, stopping when he reached the damnable collar of her uniform. “How did you do that exactly?”

“I know a spell.” He did not seem concerned with explaining his magical cure for drunkenness, as he focused almost singularly on the remaining buttons of her coat. If someone had told her that there would come a time when he’d decline the opportunity to wax poetic about magic, she would not have believed them.

“Of course you do.” She rolled her eyes and swiped the hat from his head and tossed it across the room, earning her a chuckle and his gaze. The tension and uncertainty vanished. Warmth bubbled through her as he pulled her flush against him, hand on her lower back, and kissed her deeply, tongues telling secrets behind teeth and lips.

They fell onto the bed as hands and fingers touched and caressed, carelessly uncovering skin and scars. He traced a mark on her bare chest left so long ago that she no longer remembered its source. Niamh’s eyes burned with emotions she never asked for, and she rolled so that she was over him. For all their vies for dominance over one another, and for all his outward esteem and confidence, he was completely vulnerable in her arms. He trembled with each new touch, seeming to seek any way he could feel more of her skin against his. How long had he been so starved for touch?

There was more trembling and shaking as she sank down onto his lap, moans escaping both of their throats. He shifted under her repeatedly as she rolled her hips into him, his hands tugging at her back, her shoulders, anything they could hold.  Suddenly, it all made sense. The tender touches and displays of concern, the hand holding, the caressing. It was for him. He needed touch and comfort this whole time. He appeared so aloof and avoidant of everything beyond the Fade. Apparently that was one of the few things that kept him from breaking. She would not have pushed him away so harshly had she known.

“Be still, vhenan,” she soothed, her own language foreign in her mouth despite its truth. She placed her forehead against his, “I am yours. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“I apologize. I have…” He seemed to consider his next words carefully. “It has been some time since I have been intimate.”

It was  so much more than that, and Niamh knew it. But now was not the time to challenge him. There were plenty of those times in the coming days, she was certain. For now she would comfort him. She would show him that she loved him, because she did. She loved him more than was likely wise.  Though she hated it, it was no longer something that could be help.

Niamh and Solas finished their revelry in the early hours of the morning, when the band had only just ceased playing and the guests had all retired to their rooms, or possibly passed out on the ballroom floor.  Niamh’s head lay on Solas’s shoulder, his arm crooked so that he could run fingers through her hair. She traced circles on his chest with her fingertips.

“Am I mistaken, or did you call me ‘vhenan’?” Solas’s question was sudden but sincere.

“I did,” Niamh felt heat rush to her face, “But don’t think this changes anything.  I still intend to fight your wrong opinions tooth and nail.”

“I would be concerned if you stopped.” He smiled affectionately and pulled her closer into him.

“Good,” she snapped, playfully, her words muffled as they were spoken into his chest, “Someone has to tell you to stop being an arrogant jerk.”  
  
The last thing she remembered before drifting off to sleep was the sound of Solas laughing softly.  


End file.
